


M. i. P.

by fanspired



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanspired/pseuds/fanspired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have -- "</i> </p><p>  <i>"Try it."</i></p><p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M. i. P.

**Author's Note:**

> A friend asked me to write a SPN-MiB crossover for her, and this is what happened. She generously suggested I share it more widely.
> 
> N.B. Summary is a quote from the _Men in Black_ movie. I write for love only. _Supernatural_ and _Men in Black_ belong to their respective franchises.

**_Then: Manhattan Island, New York_ **

 

He made the rise in time to see the black sedan hit the perp at full speed. The impact drove the body into the air and it landed on the road with a sickening wet thud, broken, gutted, and spilling its innards out across the asphalt. The car was just screeching to a halt as the innards reared up and lashed out, denting the hood and smashing the windscreen. Driver and passenger were already out of the vehicle; the first, armed with a pump action rifle, was firing repeatedly, driving the alien back. But the taller one, wielding a machete, represented the greater threat.

“Get back!” K warned him, but it was too late; the coleoid already had a tentacle round the young man’s throat. Another report from the rifle and the tip of it hung limp and ragged from the boy’s neck.

Injured and angered, the coleoid roared in pain and turned his attention to the shooter. It was all the distraction the other needed; he rushed forward, swinging his machete, and cleanly severed the arterial pseudopod. It was all over save for a few moments of helpless thrashing and a shower of body fluids. 

The two men stood glaring at K and dripping a bilious rainbow of sludge. The short one wiped a hand down his face and shook out his fingers. “Awesome,” he pronounced, with patent insincerity. Glancing back at the damaged car, he confronted K with an imperiously pointing finger. “You’re gonna pay for that,” he insisted. 

The taller one seemed angry. “Aliens?!” he yelled. “Demons, angels and monsters aren’t enough? We’ve got to deal with aliens, too, now?” 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention those others to my partner,” K cautioned him. “Some things he doesn’t need to know.” Hell, some things nobody needs to know. “Hey, J! Get up here! We need a clean-up crew!” 

J struggled up the slope, panting slightly. Kid wasn’t as fit as he used to be. None of them were getting any younger. 

“They’re just dealing with the space ship,” J explained. “Ms. Liberty’ll have her torch back pronto – _Damn!_ ” He stopped and stared sympathetically at the sodden hunters. “Bug?” he asked. 

“Sloogquelchian coleoid,” K supplied. 

“Oo.” J winced and nodded respectfully at the brothers. “Sorry.” 

“O.K. gentlemen, this is just a formality, I’m sure you're fine,” K assured them brusque and businesslike as he reached inside his jacket pocket “but, under the circumstances, I just need to scan you for alien pathogens. I’m sure you understand.” 

“Er . . . K?” J brushed his arm and nudged him around for a quick private conference. “You sure you wanna be so hasty with the flashy thing this time? These dudes just offed a Sloogquelchian Squid Commando armed with nothing but a machete and an old Chevy. Maybe they’d be more useful with their memories _in tact_.” 

“Old Chevy?” K reproved him. “That’s a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. It’s a classic.” 

J paused for a microsecond before ignoring him. “I mean, they got _skills._ Know what I’m saying?” 

K adjusted the settings on the neuralyzer: days, months, years. “Trust me. They already gave at the office.” Turning, he glanced at the black sedan one more time, then he put on his sunglasses. “If I could have your attention, please, gentlemen . . .” 

The brothers studied him suspiciously, but attentive, before the flash left them blinking. 

“Nice car,” he said. 

 

**_Now: Sioux Falls, South Dakota._**

****

The throaty rumble of an old engine, underscored with something slightly pained and plaintive, drew him outside to the forecourt where a dusty black sedan was drawing up to the brake shop. He blinked. It was a Chevy Impala, ’67, if he wasn’t mistaken. And he wasn’t. Impala’s best year, in his opinion. Dean hadn’t seen a classic car like that since . . . well, he couldn’t remember. It was in bad shape, though: the windshield was out, replaced by plastic sheeting; there was a huge dent in the hood and it looked like someone had spewed a septic tank over it; all that, and she was in bad need of a tune up. 

“What did you do to her?” Dean called as the driver door opened. He couldn’t quite keep the tone of accusation out of his voice, and he immediately regretted it as the driver rose to his full height and he was the size of freakin’ Big Foot! Dean barely repressed a quiet gasp as the man mountain towered over him. 

The guy didn’t seem offended, though. “Not me!” he assured Dean, affably enough. “I just bought her. I saw her gathering dust at the back of a used car lot and . . . ” he laid a gentle hand on the battered hood. “I dunno. I just couldn’t leave her there.” 

“They _sold_ her to you like _this_?” 

“Practically gave her away. The dealer said I should bring her here. He said you were the best mechanic in the district.” 

“Yeah?” Good to know. “Did you get his name?” 

“I think someone called him Jay.” 

Dean ran through his mental checklist of local dealers but the name didn’t ring any bells. “I don’t recall meeting the guy,” he said. “He’s not wrong though,” he added confidently. 

The other guy grinned, creasing his cheeks with dimples that Dean found surprisingly endearing, and cast a quick glance up to the sign over the shop. “So am I addressing Singer or Son?” he asked. 

“Son. Dean.” He extended his arm, and Sasquatch reciprocated, encasing Dean’s hand in his own great mitt – long fingers, strong, sure grip. 

“Sam Winchester.” 

The name had a familiar ring, and the reason was soon forthcoming. Sam ran another wistful hand over the car. “My father was in the trade,” he said. “I feel kinda bad not trying to fix her up myself but . . . well, I guess it was never my strongest skill set, and I feel like she needs someone who really knows cars.” 

“You’re John Winchester’s son?” 

“You knew him?” 

“Yeah, we did business,” Dean acknowledged. “I liked the man. I was sorry to hear about his passing,” he added quietly. “And your Mom’s.” 

Sam nodded and trained his gaze on the ground for a few moments. “Thank you,” he said. “I . . . er . . . I guess I wasn’t too surprised when he followed Mom so quickly. She was the love of his life, you know? We were all real close, and I miss them a lot, but I just try to be grateful they both went peacefully, and focus on all the happy years they had together, you know?” 

There were a few moments of awkward silence and Dean characteristically tried to get over them with an equally awkward attempt at humor. It was a bad habit but somehow Dean couldn’t help himself. “Well, that’s way too healthy for me,” he said. “I’m officially uncomfortable now.” Sam looked up and studied him rather oddly for a moment, but then he just smiled, and Dean was relieved he didn’t seem offended by the apparently insensitive remark. Not like Dean was a stranger to family tragedy. It was a few years now since the auto accident that had taken his own parents and his kid sister, Jo, but he still felt the loss keenly. But the cops had assured him it was quick, at least none of them had suffered, so he took what comfort he could from that and tried to remember all the good times, like Sam said. And he’d  had a lot of support from friends. The local sheriff insisted on inviting him for family dinner every weekend. Jodi Mills was good people, as was her cousin, Cas. Dude was a bit of a weirdo but he was well meaning, and you got used to his quirks after a while. 

Dean drew in a quick breath and returned his attention to the battered Impala and its new owner. “So what brings you to our town, Sam? Didn’t I hear you were in California, studying law or something?” 

A slight frown creased the young man’s brow. “Law? No. Literature and Esoteric Arts. I’m here because I’ve been offered a creative arts fellowship at USF.” 

“Really?” For some reason Dean had been sure John had said Law. He must have remembered wrong. “So . . . what? You’re a writer now?” 

The young man’s cheeks pinked rather endearingly and he tugged self-consciously at the ends of his hair. “Maybe,” he admitted. 

 “ _Yeah?!_ ” Dean was impressed, and his enthusiasm might have been a little too evident in the volume and octave of his response. “What do you write?” 

“Fantasy thrillers, mainly.” 

“Anything I might have read?” 

Sam laughed. “I doubt it. Not many people have.” 

“Well, hey, if you want to boost your readership you should write _me_ into your stories. I’m a _real_ character.” Dean emphasized the suggestion with a playful hitch of his eyebrows that prompted another huff of amusement from Sam. 

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he agreed. 

The laughter melted away into another slightly awkward lull, and Dean wondered if he was being a little over familiar with his new customer, so he turned his attention back to business and the embattled Impala. “Well, don’t you worry, Sammy,” he assured the young man. “I’ll have this baby back on the road and purring for you in no time,” and he gave the car a loving pat. 

The man telegraphed mild disapproval with a raised eyebrow. “It’s Sam,” he insisted gently. 

Dean risked a small teasing smirk. “Sure it is,” he said. 

Sam just rolled his eyes and moved on. “So, you’ll give me a call when the work’s done?” he asked. 

“Sure. What’s your number?” 

“Oh . . . it’s . . . “ Sam searched in his jacket, produced a pen and mimed writing in the air with it. “Er . . . do you have . . . ?” 

Dean patted his own pockets but he knew he didn’t have anything on him. He could go inside for paper but, somehow, before he could ask himself ‘what am I doing?’ he’d impulsively offered the palm of his hand. The look of surprise on Sam’s face almost sent him into a panic but the young man hesitated only momentarily before taking the offered hand in his. Even so, Dean’s heart was beating a rapid pit-a-pat as Sam scrawled a number across it, and he tried not to blush at the freakin’ chick flick moment. 

“O.K. so . . . I’ll call you, then,” he said, with quick business-like gruffness when Sam was done, and he hurriedly returned his attention to the car, opening doors and checking out the interior: the dash; the upholstery; the carpet; the ashtrays . . .  There was a toy soldier stuck in one of the back trays. He gave it a wiggle to see if he could dislodge it. 

“Yeah . . . well . . . I’ll see you then, I guess,” Sam said uncertainly, and turned to go, but reluctantly, and he hovered close to the car like he wasn’t ready to leave. Once more, he ran a hesitant hand across the hood. 

Dean looked up. “I’ll take good care of her,” he promised. 

“I know you will,” Sam assured him, but still didn’t go, and it suddenly dawned on Dean that the young man was all alone in a new town, and maybe he could use a little friendly support, too. Straightening up, he folded his arms on the roof and gazed at Sam over the top of the car. 

“You know I was thinking,” he said, “If you want . . . and only if you have time . . . maybe you’d like to help out? I mean, we could work on the car together?” 

Sam’s face brightened instantly. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?” 

“Hey, it’s your dollars,” Dean pointed out, then added “trade rates, of course,” and the two men grinned stupidly at each other until Dean felt compelled to give the soldier another tug. 

Sam wandered back round the car to see what was engaging Dean’s attention and watched reflectively while Dean exerted his best effort, but the little sucker was jammed tight. “Man, that’s really in there,” he muttered. 

“You know what? Leave it there,” Sam said. “There’s probably a story behind it.” 

Dean turned and grinned at him. “Hey, maybe you could _write it_ ,” he suggested. 

After a moment Sam returned a slow smile. “Maybe I will,” he said.

 

.

 

 


End file.
